Anima Mundi

In a sense, we're a part of every picture. The foreboding presence of imminent death only heighten how we feel about Him too, with what sagacity we all sense Gods school-bell rule, we'll all return soon back to the land and the Lamb of God, with an even bigger heart full of love. In every sense, we're a part of the picture. The foreboding presence of our death only heighten how we feel about survival how lives they're the living waters that roam eternally like oceans-returning we are all survivors of another time to be rediscovered in another place. Anima mundi ‘Soul of the universe By Mark Andrew Heathcote A day full of pointless-interruptions Tongues clack, annunciate quietly like revival prayer meetings between two lovers one declaring I love you; I'm yours I am a day full of pointless-interruptions I hear the dawn chorus it breaks with me. I hear the oceans riptides rise-and-fall I hear a grizzly-bear clawing a cave wall. I hear the hoots of a ravenous barn-owl. But within me, an angelic-calm descends. A hush silence whenever I near you. There are interludes of a winding river deepening. Then leaping-like a salmon down from a waterfall. There are intervals the wind rages into being. And then makes feeble serenades, it whimpers- 'take-my-hand', take me I'm yours. Such interruptions are a daily-recourse a voice in the wilderness, that's spoken to all. School window I go missing at school when I'm -seated near any-kind of a window eyes-glaze-over like a frost flower that grows melts in the blink of an eye. I spy, Fireweed swaying in the breeze that summer-clock tells the end of -summer and the beginning of autumn, but I envision an eternal spring. Where everything, mislaid is found again found, flowering on-arrival perpetual I, imagine ‘Fireweed spikes' swaying that never gives up their flame. When a teacher shouts, boy, turn around -yes, I imagine ‘frost flowers' everlasting; I, imagine a birdsong uninterrupted Playgrounds—Arcadian ceaselessly green. That's where I go missing when I'm -seated near any-kind of a school window oh, I can't wait for that school bell. Lord, knows I've been here too many years. The first whack of light As a boy, I loved verdant virgin lands the first whack of light peeking through the mist glistening-like a golden cloak sun-kissed and nature's volume going through its radio bands I loved wands of droplets weighted just so the silent dew cannot enumerate -watching robin redbreast reverberate his shrill bloated song to what do we owe -this honour of your presence little friend, why does the earthworm turn tail with the snail? Does your red jersey; scold their eyes, offend. As one kingdom ascends upon the vale -another descends blindly as a mole, a bat lucky is I in my bright habitat. It's so bewildering Dawn in the wintertime is like a coffin-lid lifted and, a feldspar of bones shimmering ice-covered reaches out to touch your hands. Ice-crystals bear their impressive teeth, mouth-crammed it's so bewildering and embittering -yet-enriching, splashing about snow, like a squid. The world flickers into life; turned ghostly white shrubs are buckling with a weight not, of their own. Trees, like the horses of the apocalypse -stand frozen, mid-gallop, and stars like steamships? Glisten orange like a flower overblown, petals near spilling like a meteorite. The falling snow From my home beneath your window by sight I love you by divinity, I kiss you by touch, I embrace you by my devotion, I join you by all that I am, I worship you by heavenly bodies I perceive you from my home beneath your window in adoration, I melt away like the falling snow. Spring-cleaning There are times our inadequacies get brushed aside like those dust particles on the bedside cabinet and I analyse their presence as a kind of catalyst and I think how they amassed to cover the surface and how inanimate I have also become. How our anxieties persecute us, almost feel justified. How adamant were their own, stay of execution how easily they accumulated taking pride of place. But yet with one sweep of my hand and a solution -is simply found, nothing too extravagant just a bit of spring-cleaning; some self-application and I no longer have this feeling of being inadequate. Just imagine Just imagine you didn't have long to live what would you give to live that bit longer? Just ponder, don't meander into overdrive strive to answer like a cataloguer what you've somehow had lost and forgot like the key to your house - standing outside taking a long look to find access and plot away back in, don't look mystified. Your life is just a short story, chapter and verse there's nothing to rehearse, acceptance -isn't a curse; roll over a new stone, nurse your old wounds and fight. Be impetuous, just imagine life-is-a-wave returned -to life, and nothing's ever adjourned. ‘Have you not seen it? ' In my heart, I have a flower. It's scented. Have you not seen it? Have you not yet—found that bower? Not pricked one forefinger on it. It lies beside a stream, winding it's way backwards, to a garden, said one-time, to be called Eden. Love, I'm not just eulogising. Find that bower, follow its scent right to the flower's heart, still rent -on loving you, it's a serpent that's fanged but lovingly verdant. Bitten you've emitted to a death so, enigmatic the world pales and like a honeybee beneath sepals, amassing nectar bales. You shall find the first flower, borne somewhere withstood the gaze-of-love you might think this flower-lowborn -found, but there's nothing sweeter above. Snowdrops Can-it-be winter is leaving; such loveliness is joyous their greenery is-beauteous, with a charm undeceiving. Snowdrops are pushing up last year's magnolia leaves making little-brown tepee's I can almost hear their blood. I can almost hear a choir of archangels singing while briar woods are sleeping their flowers is an appetiser. But how their memory lingers, how those green-and-white bells so static, still excite icy chilblain, fingers. Encompasses a whole Do our daydreams leave impressions? Like fossils leave-footprints why count our possessions? With others be wolfish. This-life child is only a recital, only a prelude rehearsal to another, full circle. This is-part-of-a test, that encompasses a whole never made manifest to which we give our soul. A creaking blue door I recall a lake, waters emerald sunlight glinting, and in every corner a school of fish, I'd sit like Tom Sawyer I'd watch fir-trees swaying tall and pencilled. I'd see fat carp in groups of seven or more move with the ease of summer clouds that had now become unaccustomed to downpours and recall the old-fishing hut, table plaid. It's lime green, boards and a creaking blue door I recall kingfishers darting, side by side how they would plunge and then suddenly soar I was in [heaven] till insecticides -from a crop, sprayer flew over, killing off all the fish, which meant no revenue. The fishing hut got hauled down, a clearing- Made; trees-fell like some God had gone achoo! A heartbreak evident in daylight gloomily that's how I recall this place squats lakeside like being graveside a feeling all [heaven] had been, defaced. Like a fish Like a fish like a fish Lord, like a fish devour me like a fish consume me like a fish salt-dried soak me like a fish smoke-hung, hangs me like a fish in a frying pan, fry me, eat me like a fish, I contain the minions of the Ocean Sea like a fish, the mermen and the mermaids all know me like a fish let me spawn in a riverbed like a fish let me catch the waves like a fish let-me-leap and play like a fish let-me-swim upriver like a fish let-me-spool away like a fish let me drown like a fish let-me-be -fish food for thee succour for, you like a fish Lord, like a fish a fish Spring pathways I love seeing the common toad entering the road just sat there resting like it's on some royal commode I love seeing that red army of ants in their troops, and those little white mayflies in their aerial-loops. Forget being the first man in space or on the moon, I'd rather have my lover lay on my breast entomb. Forget being the first to leave footprints in the snow, I love being the first to weave through a spring-meadow. I love making clouds of pollen as I run-ahead looking back, watching those tall grasses wands as I sped. I love huge-brown sideways dragonflies flying-boundless I love making flowerbeds switchblade in their prowess. Excavating trouble makers Dusk and annoying woodpeckers take their rest from ‘rat-a-tat-tat' holing-out tree a nest. They'll drum from ‘January until June' in pairs - some 200 times a day their beaks harpoon in a splintered tree; excavating a chamber till their nonstop, noise becomes faint…fainter. High summer now the drilling falls to a low hush, except for the road works—a ground-hopping thrush. Peace will now mostly transcended on-the-wood as everyone is going about their livelihood. A woodpecker brood fills their large hungry-guts while schoolchildren-practise their ‘desktop-woodcuts.' April sunlight on lake water Dancing on their embarkations, triangular-arrowheads enter the water dispersing a blinding light, shimmering -like a thousand fish mouths opening, biting—then just as suddenly closing. ‘Each wave mirroring the next as if -an oily mercury serpent was passing with all its diamante alloy-scales flashing against some current that held it fast, Fast-enough that I, might, repeatedly gasp.' ‘Such things as these often go unseen, as if it were a figment of a dream the serpent becomes a rainbow, the rainbow becomes a serpent and no one recalls the dream.' the beauty depth of all we've just, seen. There is an open jarred cavity in us all an eternal eye that sees entirely-everything, it doesn't matter if for a second you blink its lens has already been light-exposed the film in the darkroom fully developed. Semi-sweet We're only sometimes; semi-sweet-hmm I wish we could encounter that honeybee -under the dappled, shade of His apple tree. And meet only at the core - but alas again. Autumn holds our goods in-store; so we preserve to sing like blossom trees insatiable - wryly last-out-these lengthy winters tentatively, in springtime eat our royal jelly reserve. Our nape feels cold fingers harsh words their wintery blasts see windblown fruits fall in the end, good-seasons return my call we're dipping into flowers with hummingbirds. We're sitting on mossy boughs holding hands watching April clouds roll and dissipate I kiss, her-cheeks, she blushes-red I expiate I'll do things right at the core of her pangs. Tentative fingers When May woodland flowers are on their timbers and horse chestnut trees have on tentative fingers a shadow prevails within a sea of green it wanders down to the village green fringe with flowers like a tablecloth, there links with your heels like a wetted-cloth that's dragged-through the fields yellow moss when you reach the churchyard and see a stone-cross that shadow reminds you of a bell that will toll candles that'll-be lit for the passing of your soul. The journey home Aisle-on-aisle in them, church pews, going home they hold their iPhone 7s like a prayer book bent in devotion switched to some—Om! Haloed busses, baited on a fishhook each waiting for that vital uplink call is it the voice of God or just subtext? I feel I'm not connected, less enthral I don't-like iPhones at all—I'm perplexed I haven't God, at my fingertips—my ear and this isn't my church or Sunday school. As a rule, I read a book some seer a clear-eyed poet, prophet so I'm, uncool I'm, inclined to sit, alone, quite detached a vestibule, where God and I are, patched. A guiding faun I remember a willow tree half-eaten by fire and lightning; and later a blue tits nest a living scroll within a cracked open blackened vest. I remember a frozen landscape a winding stream with yellow primroses and a personal agony back then -I imagined would-always-remain a torrent. I remember thinking, how do I fit. How do I survive-identical a blue tits egg? Will I endure lives every misfortune; equal half-eaten willow trees apportion. I remember thinking this is no dream. It holds nightmares of every persuasion -of joy and misery of equal equation; it evolves as do the season's opposite. I remember thinking, how life goes on how it flourishes with virtuosity, how it fights back from adversity, inhabits-remote places, a guiding faun. Arctic snow The news is a constant in all our lives like microplastics found in arctic snow, yesterday's news headline no one forgives but we're all part responsible, and so let's not adlib some sense of innocent's act-like it's some, sort of manslaughter-charge. ‘We can beat that crap, ' we aren't villainous that smoking-gun wasn't ours or this scourge of waste; decomposing-body unclaimed on the worlds, cold mortuary table waiting to be identified - reclaimed no, this-isn't-ours it's been mislabel no lead I didn't fire that pistol? Look this snow is pure and clear as crystal. Take skywards as wings-are-meant Her eggs are round, white as snow one, that's been thrown and is now, quite-imbedded with black-stone not-round as a honeycomb, infamously, hard to see she could be a sedge-land-bee chasing insects, eat chaff seed, nesting beneath-the-bindweed yes, leave the flowers-be. Male sings, before the moonlight soaking up drowsy sunlight till it whispers in wheatear. it's now time to leave mid-air find someplace fairer—avail come-away ground-hugging, quail. there's more my heart can-lament take skywards as wings-are-meant. Prayer bells It's a topsy-turvy-world, but don't-be-fooled or confused. Everything will be-unfurled and again suitably fused. There will be prayer bells spun across the Himalayas they shall pitch, fecund at some higher alertness: You'll sense all living things have a tone of fulfilment you'll pace in a labyrinth there find endless devilment. That everything that's known still goes unrecognised like reflective doubles, more in ways crystallised. The house-of-love True love is a mirror what you see is what you get and what you give is what you'll receive. Opposites mirror one another, hate mirrors hate, disappointment disillusionment. And-true-love, love, love honest - love in earnest. Earth and sky are one. One can never be two, two halves make one whole. This journey centres us like a fruit stone, like a temple, like the Taj Mahal. The love we're-shown is received as our garden, as our home. As our country, so gracious is the house of love. A little less commonplace Angels need not infer they have wings a heart or even an angelic soul, should you not believe in their hymns? Should you close your eyes tight, blindfold? Wad cotton balls into your ears; it would be hard to fathom anything more other than Fire and Ice; pain that disappears ‘say, wouldn't it be a nice-allure -if an angel melted the ice, extinguished the fire and put a smile on your sour face, ' wouldn't that be a grace something kindred like a friendship, a-little-less commonplace. A meaning beyond lyrics and verses Conceive poets can fragrance the world with words What would you do that's different and new? What lush curds and whey, would be-sent our way What three-fold prayers would find their calling? Hover with the spirit of hummingbirds Justified amassing this nectar-accrue It'd be proper to sing without cliché Find silence in a chorus high-soaring A meaning beyond lyrics and verses That grows even as it deepens—kernels. Similar in so-many-ways World conscience must make strides, and prise open doors and open eyes so our fragility can-be recognised. But how is it we get so polarised so self-destructive look beyond the mirror, see there's more to all of this than you. Let continents and cultures-collide. we're all citizens poorly advised; similar in so-many-ways, no-disguise. We bleed we die, and know-how to cry, we are brothers and sisters, and when it's all, told a-bag-of cinders. Left-unclaimed waiting for repatriation to another isolation chamber, to be rediscovered like a gnat in amber. DNA-sequencing of every atom, sent down a collider questions answered about the laws of attraction. Poetry in motion We're all poetry in motion in God's-hands ‘aren't you a poet? ' I am if God made me. The body of butterflies is damn ugly, but with glowing wings, their beauty expands. We're not two-or-three dimensional we've got a fourth and fifth; do you get my gist there is something very intentional something special makes us exist. And yet remains purposeful and unclear every life radiant with its own, music follows its drumbeat each balladeer comes, composed of grace own acoustics. If a rock crumbles to sand - composedly turned to crystal glass, can't you apprehend? We're all poetry in motion in God's hands ‘aren't you a poet? ' I am if God made me. With glowing wings, beauty wanton expands flies in the face of many hopeless demands; guess the music in me wasn't-really mine. Like an orchestra, everything intertwines. Trumpet-praises like a priest Sorry, it has no more love, feelings for the stars above my hearts already crushed got, trampled into powdery dust. Yet-even-now remains a seed a blossom that can't be creased still climbs to heaven on-Bindweed; there trumpet-praises like a priest. Chaste-in-chastity vowing to love ah, only one, Him above heart as swollen as rose Prospero true-unto it's self no-alter-ego. There my heart and soul would flower whole as a day of an equal hour twinning round some arching bower climbing-upwards, heavens, tower. All my magic powers disowned, all my evil spells somehow atoned. All doubting thoughts newly answered my whole essence beside Him enraptured. Birds are nesting the world-over Birds are nesting, the world-over shoulder to shoulder. Between the desert and the sea, the sky and the land, the mountains and the forest as far as the eye can see. Something-greater than us feathers the spume-of that great-oceanic sea, hatching these unborn stars; above you and me. The heart is love-personified What the eye doesn't see, the heart can feel? From-the-heart also is the mind and body, for the heart, the heart is love personified already. What does eye-do-better than the heart? Your eyes are only the tip of the dart. first, you must feel each gouge bleed crimson Then taste the blood the essence of a flower. And know that for each flower there is a root that you can trace trace back to the dawn of that first throbbing hour. Who? Who sees you and, who sees me? And therefore sees everything and doesn't compare unequally-anything; equate with the same sad piano key delicious way. Who walks, between all our shadows? Fluid as light, indivisible from-the-whole just as the darkness and shadow amalgamates-all we can't see unabridged. Who only who does-speaks Speak with the wind and understands the winds utterances incoherence a butterfly's winding twist subtle bend. Who hears a pin drop? And every animated, strangers voice like a dewdrop trembling to sing falling into a whirlwind underpinned. Who, who, who? Cobwebs-Broken Standing around like road-signs in the snow, Most pointing upwards shouting stop, don't go Others like traffic-cones kicked-over Cobwebs-broken with names lichen ochre Read—tread no further - hold on to your time Let Sunday-bells chime in late-wintertime. Let the migration of youth, turn south first Let it be sun-bleached by some 30000 days immersed. And then rise like a helium balloon … Break from that shadow, from its ankles, hewn Then stand tall amongst these headstones entombed. Let crypts of snow, in your soul be-exhumed Mingle on the ivy that's always green, And congeal to a stop-sign evergreen. Life on the wind Life on the wind of a butterfly's wing moves hither and thither, if only we could catch it, in essence like a sphinx placed in our palm and watch ourselves esprit find peace and rest, lapping up the brightest stars -discover a lifestyle, without remorse. In stillness rest and find fulfilment blest but life on these winds all hurly-burly for each-and-every one, it is a test to remain afloat always inexpertly learning how to steer a steady course. Hope one-day our-faith will be, reimburse. Summer worshipper Let me give you this summer as a gift it'll never come again with such hot bliss let me feel your pulse racing against your wrist it'll never feel the same we'll coexist and in time life will flatline fall static we'll live in shadows each a nesting doll pushed further back from our real-selves, tragic isn't it how lifeless-and-banal? The future will be after this summer -let's dovetail like well-made furniture. Burn on a campfire, till stars grow, duller brighter by design, leave a worshipper. In me, a parched breath breathes as if for you as if after today all is lost, subdue. Beauty is all around Beauty is all around us. If we have the eyes to see it the heart to reach out and touch it, the soul to spend an eternity in its pleasure. All you have to ask is, does it? Does it rekindle your desire? Extinguish or relight your fire. If we can but just exceed-our own-measure beauty is, is all around us. Come-what-may let us serve it up today, beauty is all around us. If we-just had the eyes to see it and the heart to reach out and touch it or better still; share with a living part of it. Autumn and winter As for spring and summer I can wake a hummingbird in you make an eagle hovers-to-devour you as for autumn and winter in her final-grip their icy-moans. I can call a vulture to pick your bones make you, my robin redbreast. Strip your feathers to line my soul's nest. And as for all the rest; let eternity- know that I've been devoutly blest. The prodigal son Silence frustrates your prodigal sons returning to a shut door a bosom, left outside your chambered—bullion their names worth remain still a misnomer? Through a keyhole, they see chinks of light yet-where, there's a protruding key that light disintegrates out of sight out of view, that's how it is with you. Don't get me, wrong we look for an entrance we want to lodge open our syncretic eyes collapse any walls and inherit your skies. In-the-near-future we'll have descendants locked vaulted in tombs to be opened but yet there you are, Father a keyhole a chick of light never eroded radiantly gold, waiting for us to behold. Ripe-old apple-trees I want to write a poem about ripe old apple trees and poets in their armchairs with arthritic knees, carving out words into windblown dandelion seeds circling trunks and boughs where a snake precedes to hiss and talk in serpent tongues of ancient-times I want to write a poem that reaches starry climbs, lower-shadows in the grass than an adder that gives-off a whiff-taste of a sour-thereafter. Again, I want to write a poem about Adam and Eve, how Adam rolled up his sleeves, but couldn't please Eve. How Eve jealously guarded a secret; how it tipped the world into self-revilement such white-blossoms inked, flail into the sky, like snake scales outgrown all-too-often-left awry. I want to write a poem about ripe-old apple-trees and poets in their armchairs with arthritic knees, but sadly I haven't the time to-do-so child, I'm becoming all-too-old and now sleep beguiled. Ghost apples Aren't we all hung, by an indivisible-thread? Like ghost apples the remnants of a core? Old age it has to be said. Does a-difficult journey take and endure? But what beauty could we too have left hanging Has even-me hankered when I mature Shall-I-also leave-as-much dangling Kindness sweetened with a harvest store. Let me be as apple-blossom White and cylindrical piped from black-caviar let me be as apple-blossoms five-pointed star let me perch sit upon the boughs of heavens blue fall ripe and-heavy when my time is way past due and rest in your lap for collection, life anew then when all is said and done, I'll bid you adieu. Lay still my beating heart Beneath the white wet dew-lit foxgloves, the lichens and apricot boughs beneath the dusky grey church clock tower and the ambient wet westward clouds, lay still my beating heart. As silence wrestles with silence taut as topaz ladybirds march unduly through the myriad ichor of lustrous web, through a needle of time unravelling, lay still my beating heart with His. Consider you are a tree? When a tree is, grown you have to decide its purpose its size and more besides. Do you want dappled shade, do you want flowers, and want tremulous-movement upwardly moving powers. Or swaying in the breeze considers you are a tree what did you wish to be a thorn or a tulip tree. The lovers fall I am the leaves of a tree I am Aspen whispering about you because I've nothing better to do I spread my gold dappled-leaves over you and take root under you, and ask you are you the sun, are you the sky? Are you the ocean, are you the moon? Because I've been searching for you I've spread my leaves to the four winds and, found my resting place beside you. Let me urn Beneath the tree of God I am not sinful or sinless but if-doomed I am to die. Can I borrow your lips? Your heart and your smile taste the fruit of good and evil and know all there is to know about ripe plums their stones. Beneath this tree of God if I am condemned-to-know only this flesh, live in this flame we call a body that dances leaps headlong for another let me burn at a steady rate and in your arms my love, slowly, ever slowly disintegrate. Silently lulled Falling leaves they're like parchment memories they crisp stronger than ever was before. Falling in your lap; change trajectories hand clasping - the seed of the sycamore and as it does in nature's store, the winds howl the tree-bares-all. Naked autumn-fall roots on-this-earth so deep, they groan and growl never, wanting to lose an inch of, bedroll but as all things collapse, so does - the mind into its own-rich-black velvety mulch, that resembles ourselves consigned these amber pages, which drop-silently-lulled we give up our evergreen fripperies tongue and cheek our emerald mysteries. Blowout its cheeks and rage Where does the wind reside does-it-circle the causeway rocks does-it-reside in County Antrim does-it-enter a cavern and there sleep, like a snail within its spiral walls did it charter a rainbow to a rainbows end? Does it hush its breath and dream its death. But then blowout-its-cheeks and rage, rage at the moon rage at the sun because it can't find rest, it can't find peace, peace in the heart or soul of anyone. Anima mundi In a sense, we're a part of every picture. The foreboding presence of our deaths only heightens how we feel about Him, too, With what sagacity do we all sense gods? School bell rule - we'll all return soon, back to the land and the Lamb of God, with an even bigger heart full of love. In every sense, we're part of the picture. The foreboding presence of our deaths only heightens how we feel about survival. How our lives are really like the waters that roam eternally like oceans, returning we are all survivors of another time. To be rediscovered in another place. I should like Pray, tell your vision of the afterlife? Be there a seed invested, still to grow? Who will germinate it in the next afterlife? I should, like to see it leave its embryo, I should like to water it daily, between dusk and dawn; watch its vines twist and climb, I'd like to see a sapling tree, waving green her boughs bent following the moon, downstream. I should like your roots knitted deeply in me a hopeless romantic sings-eternal joy, yet-knows the limitations of their plea I'd like to be there, when your eyes, reemploy Open-up dew-wet flowers ever so coy, a Helen that's beautiful as that of Troy. Like a salmon Nothing brings me as much pleasure as gazing at your eyes countermeasure like a salmon, I would leap to catch the stars like a firefly, I would imitate hot fiery sparks. As we kiss waxing like hot-orbs delirious melting into each other's lips - it's mysterious how it all unfolds, how one day it will die, leave a gaping-black-hole nothing can transmogrify. It's-hurtful sleeping alone in my bed when I've been-warmed by your blood yes it's wounding, cold cruel, being misled when all you ever wanted was to be loved. A poor man's archaeology I recall excavating ash-dark earth -and then that silly sudden happy mirth, smooth brown 'stoneware' uncovered still interred. Excitement, ever so slightly deferred. Knee-deep; in Dog-Wood, diggings like a mole hillocks-all-over the show—black as coal and in my hands a piece of history, forcing it out ever so gingerly, And a question mark hovers is it entire? Will it rest on my shelves a survivor? in my kitchen with two dozen others Edwardian, Victorian, brothers dumps can yield much paraphernalia digging finds no royal regalia. But bottle-diggers find hand-blown treasure even, small ointment ones, without measure -are intrinsically a special tell-tale as they've survived something more than airmail. Or the dumping's in an old chamber pot they sentimentally, just mean-a-lot. The jarring of midnight dew What permanent vanquished beauty What tyrannical sea of change Transmutes and transmogrifies All that is indigenous to atoms Rock, iron, wood, salt, root, flesh and bone What increments are rooting for you? In us in this archaic, masquerade What sagacity, what foresight Inch us forwards singular Into an esoteric silhouette What everlasting beauty Imbibe through you so you too Can be tantalised and bid for The jarring of His midnight dew Enchantments moth flame repository. Garden roadside paradise A picture-perfect postcard-prairie my garden was a slice of my personality always trying to be, at its, very best. But my lovely garden isn't love-blessed sadly there's a cuckoo perched on my breast who's decided I should be dispossessed now bindweed does its best to be caressed but I can always make another garden all I need is some dirt with a bit of sweetness; all I need is a spade, sharpen I can't be too disheartened my love. Every garden starts from a dustbowl it just needs caring-for someone to cajole. Life is what? Life is what? A ball of clay punched and softened spun around and moulded kiln-baked every single day till its final shape is, fashioned or it cracks and explodes— it's in your hands how it's finished how it's used and glazed every pot is made, with love but not all vessels contain it. Some flaws we can work upon others are too ingrained. All pots will be made-clay again it's the way of every container it's the way of every retainer that everything put in, took out is, repaid. With a song delicate Wish I was a happy chap could stitch and close every gap between a song delicate as scented air wish I could betroth a flower so, rare join in with the bee's buzzing mad tasting their love for honey, forbad. Love, let us build a humble nest lives every moment of our lives blessed. God, will save-us-all God will save us for sure No need to worry, final Child, do not live in denial God will save us for sure. God will save us for sure He'll open a portal Tell us we're no longer mortal God will save us for sure. God will save us for sure I hear we're near his call He delivers us from evil God will save us for sure. God will save us for sure Just leave a light on Just leave an open door God will save us for sure. God will save us for sure Listen, I hear his arrival Nothing to fear or be frightful of God will save us for sure. God will save us for sure Even-handed one and all The meek and mild and those who are wild, God, will save-us-all. How can I How can I square the four corners of her heart of my world? How can I cross deserts without water to wet my thirst my throat? How can I defy gravity if I'm not catapulted or whirled? How can I climb all those mountainous terrains without a rope? How can I find paradise if I'm living in some underworld How can I sail all these seas and oceans without a boat How can I survive the infernos of these smoky settings blurred? If I'm not selflessly devoted to every word spoken love-emotes That says she loves me; she loves me only unreserved. Rainy days What streets have seen more tears? More grief than the cobbled streets of Manchester my heart was once a flower meadow, but now the prettiest littlest thing that grows in-between the cracks are purple-blue Milkwort's otherwise known as snakeroots; this is how our paths cross and combine until-the-way is lost. Jostling for space for sunlight overshadowing others more shrivelled-out trampled-upon. We appear from our cracks like fat wriggling earthworms, sensing a virginal world is unfolding, but then along, comes a blackbird or a red robin and all our sunshine, rainy days and tears are gone. Climb my way upstairs I am not a board-game I am no snakes-and-ladders but inside me, I know what truly matters? I am not a banker neither is I a vampire but both are no better then one or the other I am not an atheist neither is I a priest but both will have no answer when they leave in a hearse I am not a politician neither is I a diplomat but both have sown immense sorrow daily creating some shifty, avalanche. I am not a thief neither is I a charity but one day, I'll wear a wreath and die someplace quite happily I'm simply a poet I whisper sweet nothings to the wind but don't quote me because I can blissfully sing! I am not a sharp dresser neither is I a ladies man, but I know I'll leave this dark seller climb my way upstairs I am not a board game I am no snakes and ladders but inside me, I know what truly matters? Consequential sequences … Working through consequential sequences We learn to dance away-our-weaknesses. Visible but in the periphery, … Focus on a life full of victory. Burnt to a cinder; rise above your ills, Springtime - waking like nodding daffodils. We're carried, through the singeing, flames of sin, And moth-like to-a-flame we're drawn to Him. In prayer did I hear a hum In prayer did I hear a hum loud as any drum, with what measured breath did weigh? The probity-of-all our days the incline of this steep decay: Faiths emphatic leap the deities of men the ungodliness of snakes love in its mortal coils heap. Motionlessly, kneeling, frequently asleep only momentarily, awake. Like a cricket at the gate ready to jump blindly toward fate. In prayer did I hear a hum -loud as any, drum? ‘Come, approach, come…come? ' It is nightfall It is nightfall hymns to the silence soothe me. Rain tinkles on terracotta tiles an owl hoot by the railway line; a milk float approaches quietly, and a poem self-seeds itself; adjusting like a flower to absorb more heat. And yet I cannot sleep- for fear, I might bend like a head of wheat overripe - too heavy, weighed down by own, unending conceit. It is nightfall and even a poet must one day sleep meet his midnight and let better hymns to the silence speak and embroil on the lips of those best left to mildew weep. Double strong in you Have you ever watched a hawk hover? Follow the flow of the wind along with the heather stood in silence gazing at the lapping water or run through a meadow filled with laughter. Have you ever watched the morning dew sparkle? Have you ever swum with the barbel or stood amidst a storm and felt colossal even-stronger than a tidal wave costal. Whatever makes a boy a man? An acorn to grow in the palm of your hands whatever makes a hawk hover? Without-crashing into its motherland whatever makes a meadow flower root derived its strength double-strong in you. Whatever makes the morning dew? Wells up in tears of happiness in you, whatever makes a barbel swim firm midstream? Have a steadying grip on me and you too That's why the storm can't sway your resolve. And that's why I believe in you. An orchid plucked by the hand-of-God Palm-over-palm, above the treetop pines, let us climb these mysterious vines. Climb from their roots and touch the sky, hang there like a fruit waving goodbye. Join a designated star an atom, a spore -that will happily fly not fall to the floor. That's not yet entirely-self-constituted that will divinely dine air-rooted. Let us like sunflowers are torn from the sod, rise-up, again fan-flamed newly forged. that nothing can fake on-the-spot an orchid plucked by the hand-of-God. The divinity of life in all things The worlds as precious as a honeybee and treasured as the clear sparkling dew it's exquisite as a bride in her sari the world's clearly, as dear to me as you. The divinity of life in all things is always fresh and unsoiled—virginal has the purity of gold, crowning kings the majesty of a queen worshipful the worlds a pear balanced about to fall a star trembling upon a midnight hour we each part of the final segments whole synchronicity blooms but one flower delicate as woven silk unravels like dead flowers to seed on their scaffolds. Joy-jumps heart-to-heart heart-to-heart like a grasshopper. But all I need to do' is-but-hover over zenith green-tips of dew. All I need to do' is-but-dance above His skies grey purlieu to feel His rainbows lance and not feel blue. All I need to do' is-but-touch wings with His mirror-ball awnings His unworldly, light! ‘Then learn heaven is truly-bright.' All I need to learn is-to-be still like a grasshopper He can but net at will. Clasp in His palms prayer our mortal souls free of sin forever. Barbarity all around me There is this barbarity around me and although I close my tired leaden eyes I can't close my heart make it a detainee my soul, I can't make it naturalise. There are times, bloodhounds baying at my door stop, stop their howling go, play, hide and seek and like a tortured ravenous carnivore they go cold, hungry and morally weak. In human clothes; I can be cruel leave my cage and join that pack, bloodthirsty eyes open, hard and frozen burning fuel is this life just somehow perfunctory I don't know where these feelings come from but all their barbarity makes me numb. Love unperturbed Regrets are best, left to smoulder as ashes in the grate, undisturbed yes, now they'll burn without closure but that's how love grows, unperturbed. Gentle puffs of air once rightly directed can rekindle fires—thought long dead. Please let your heart, not be neglected, once a well-placed spark turns infrared. If you've some dying flame in your heart already a fire to spark and burn, you'll touch some heat, residual not dark unearthed, paint a starry, Nocturne. But like wet oil, fresh on canvas still to be stretched permanently, fixed. You'll be glad you left ochre ashes- of regret to burn fully-eclipsed. As a measure of the sunrise -shining, glowing right with you now so later coldly you can summarise embers fervour, dying with own two eyes. A love unperturbed with no regrets let it burn, simmer in its flames a part of your old life vignettes Escapades turned blue in old-campaigns. In your garden I find myself, in your garden a gorging fat caterpillar Lord with leniency and pardon Lord allows me to climb a pillar. Step forth on a blue pergola and, examine-all-of heaven from a flower buds corolla, yes with a little discretion. I might find my fantasy wings and go loop-de-loop in the skies. Catch me, some permanent-fixings I-can truly re-energise. Did it prevent your sun-kissed dreams? Father that sundial, is it death is it Father - the hand of death? Is it the sword that cuts short a bird's flight? ‘Child, we're all adjacent, the window of life.' ‘It's a window of infinite-endless light.' O' Father is it a guillotine do it covert our breath. O' Father how much time, time-does-we have left? ‘Child, we're all adjacent, the window of life until the bird in your soul takes flight.' ‘Child, a question …answer your father this. Did it prevent your sun-kissed dreams? Last night.' Confession Eve's lover comes to warm her with hot apple tea, he brings the peppermint the acidity of lemon she brings the honey, the vitamin C, he needs, he hands her over a piece of ripe heaven at the core, all she wants is to bite this phial of venom. And hear his deepest, darkest, confession forget all about fig leaves and noble, discretion. Without you Energise my heart of a winning glance if I were fain to look away, but glow with every fibre of my being, I owe. I would gaze at you with no more askance then a flower does a gentle shadow while wilting of thirst like a Pasque flower for the morning dew to enrich its power, ‘you're starlight here' nothing can foreshadow. Nothing native or common, about you you're more graceful than the prairie crocus eyes on you, I hold the world in one breath eyes closed and the universe is in focus all's fixed, in rightful place, life and death they mean, totally nothing, without you. Colossal choices Open my heart, open my eyes prise-me-open like a mussel I have grit, I've got, fire, passion little else belies inside my shell but my heart and soul they're colossal. ‘I cannot undersell such a pearl? ' Not when countless others are misshapen so give me all you've got, prince or frog. Or else the deal is off null and void and I'll head back to my grotto-gutted miserably empty and totally, annoyed. Mother-nature Mother-nature what is the essence of spring -does father berate you turning back his sheets? Does he wait in the wings with chilly deceits Mother-nature you're waking up everything. The dawn is rousing with birdsong and crickets hens are cluck, cluck, clucking once again the farm dog is barking-mad in the thickets And coppiced-boughs emerald in the woodland-fen. Mother-nature what is all this foliage about my ankle they're reddened by stinging nettles and the mountain, rivers are leaping with brown trout Mother-nature, there's cherry, blossom petals: Everywhere I walk; you're a good ten, steps ahead the grounds covered in slugs and snails it looks like they're carrying picnic baskets on their head Mother-nature—father is reading hymn books. He wants to blanket the world in ice and snow, put a bookmark in this passage and embrace you. But you're as skittish as a new-born lamb, so- I ask for Sis Summer, ‘what's your overview.' Has the moon found her rose? Has the moon found her rose? In the mirror of your face when she soothed in repose did you steal her grace? Quill in hand, did she quiver then strike out the stars short-fuse Gods voltage emitter baneful of how beautiful you are. Has the moon found her rose? One equal of her rhythmic music her nocturne throes Poetic refinement is therapeutic. But so is the hand we trace to the stars in their orbit that weaves and embraces the world with us transported. The rose and the bumblebee Love must have its tempest said the bee to the rose love must have its passions-harnessed before its midnights, close. Yes, love must have its passion said the rose to the bee love must unburden of a fashion if, it's ever to be free. But isn't that loves, betrayal said the bee to the rose peering beneath; her petal veils before whisking on his toes. Your-love truly a tempest said the rose to the bee but I'm the queen most - royalist Sir—on this we'll both agree. Love must have its tempest and this is plain to see why passion's flame did bless the rose and the bee. Ashes You've reduced my heart to ashes but still, I would ask you to blow, blow, deeply into these remains static see me glow, tremble into living flame. Know my fire for you cannot die its tempest has no inner peace or calm. A hurricane that alternates between heaven and earth, longing, longing to be in just one happy dwelling but like an ocean tide, there's no such place. So of course, if my fire, fire were to burn begin to vent throughout my core—its Because I love you with my every, pore I'm near extinguished, but that only makes me yearn a million times more to feel our fanned flame fire restored. You've reduced my heart to ashes but I've-still-this-love, this unused-passion. Let me burn Beneath the tree of God I am not sinful or sinless but if-doomed I am to die. Can I borrow your lips? Your heart and your smile taste the fruit of good and evil and know all there is to know about ripe plums their stones. Beneath this tree of God if I am condemned-to-know only this flesh, live in this flame we call a body that dances leaps headlong for another let me burn at a steady rate and in your arms my love, slowly, ever slowly disintegrate. When we're gone and no longer To be there when we're gone and no longer that freshly taken photo, with our children in some movie at a wedding as a spectator part of the scenery, not yet an anachronism a footnote in time isn't that our aspiration remembered as a star in their constellation. Orbiting their hearts, their starry heavens still shedding some contributory light that guides them on their path, a presence that gives them the courage to face the night to be there when we're gone and no longer so they might not in their footsteps falter. The whisper of the muse With his violin bow in hand, the man plays -then stops, listens to his whispering muse. Where-others-were entranced, he breaks and weighs. His face solemn in thought; much less enthuse- resembling a wilting flower head drooped for the world-looks a man who has been, duped. He's old, and he has passed this way before, he knows off by heart, the music his soul- has sealed inside, and like green Hellebore in the wintertime, his head will rise and roll and the blood of Christ, a clap of thunder makes all bolt up straight in awe, and wonder. On the wings-of-love Mayfly if ever an angel be It was you and me Pirouetting in the air so free Above a cobweb lea If ever a child had azure blue wings As blue as a periwinkle sky Then sweet-tenderfoot swimming It must have been you and, I Down amongst the meadows Where the green woods-wend Down amongst the willows Where the reeds draught an end; There I came a dancing Roving like a bee With honeydew brown eyes By a river; like the river Spree. Soft as ephemeral moonlight You took wing with me Oh mayfly green and tender bright True, angels; once were we. Fine-silk-spun with gold Folded moth wings placed together in prayer open to discover the moon and starlit air in madness flap circle my heart and like a curtain, take little bites at my soul. But what can they discover - there! My heart isn't threaded spun with gold. And my soul isn't made of fine-silk I'm just as the moon lost in this black ink. With folded hands at night, I am, locked in sleep. I dream and pray to fly away indeed there-are no limits to the madness I seek. ‘I even have the freedom to fly.' In madness flap circle the light in a distant sky. My prayers are never more of spoken as I draw back a curtain, which reveals a fine-silk -spun with gold in madness, desires even my soul. Just Imagine Just imagine you didn't have long to live what would you give to live that bit longer? Just ponder, don't meander into overdrive strive to answer like a cataloguer what you've somehow have lost and forgot like the key to your house - standing outside take a long look to find, access and plot Away back in, don't look mystified. Your life's just a short story, chapter and verse there's nothing to rehearse, acceptance isn't a curse; roll over a new stone, nurse- your old wounds and fight - be impetuous just imagine life is a wave returned- to life and nothing's ever adjourned. Honeypot of gold Oh, lucky, lucky me I climbed a maple tree and, found a sacred bee making honey; just for me. Omnipotent and gold breaking free ofthe shadow Supreme Being you are an eternal summer star you light the way that I and others must follow that I and that lonelier moon with her guitar will shadow, Supreme Being with a golden-sitar you light the way, and all is, bathed in ash and fire ah, oceans, rise, rise, rise, rise and-I am-baptised Supreme Being your warmth is a deep, deep magnifier you light the way so that others feel energised just by your touch, more, and more humanised. Oh, lucky, lucky me I climbed a maple tree and, found a sacred bee making honey; just for me. Restrain me Restrain me because I want to bathe in your sun I want a southern moon to shiver on you from the naked shadows, I cast over you restrain me I'm like an applecart toppled over soon, I will be showing you the core of my heart how I've longed to touch you in the dark and trace the horizon that lights up in your eyes restrain me because I want to bathe in your sun I want only for you, I hunger-for-you there is no other star shines brighter than you. When winter does wrestle death When winter does wrestle death snow lies falling with petals bereft her mantles a meadow, white lily uprooting stars, in heavens pity. Fine, veils of silk they're spun to order wheeling moths—circle and flutter then Ferris wheel across the border. Our souls are curdled, in God's butter when winter does wrestle death no heart will beat in shadows bereft the feeble will draw a second breath when winsome-winter wrestles death the old cudgelled wings, given new -give wave their goodbyes, at us adieu. Braid your hair with His God - has many names, but ‘Love' is the one that counts most aptly ‘Love' … ‘Love' ‘Just Love' only, one word one name like ‘God' isn't it? God - has so many names each acts as a veil but ‘Love' is, ‘Love' only. So braid your hair with His embrace, lock fingers with His. His is a tree twining roots His is the first branch you perch on His is trees-bough at your centre your hearts bead is a locket of amber 'the trees name is Love. While here While here run through tall meadows while here smell the scent of flowers while here feel the beat of a bird's wing while here touch the tingling snows. While gazing up at the moon while here sit in the arms of a tree while here count at midnight the stars and thank yours, mine are still ours. Have we lingered in their attic floors? On hearts of angels, have we trod? Heavier-sorrows than the weight-of-sod have we lingered in their attic floors? To glimpse, hear, behind their doors. The sound of the vesper-bells upon their toes have we glued our hearts decomposed? Sifted through shadows only He knows still yet find ourselves, juxtapose. Any learning uniform wind commands. Oh, such a bounty is in-store pre-tax if we can exert a torque force of love might we discover the wings of a dove? A hornet on the wing God, he would catch a hornet on the wing, relish infinite beauty, not its sting. Your-beauty is such; I cannot-truly-say, words have no meaning this or any other day. ‘Should I love you, well that's not a question He would entertain at any junction.' your petals are like-a-rose not-quite formed, but neither are you, to-be-outperformed. Attic room Through a narrow doorway turning left I was, dumped placed in the attic room the linen white was crisp pressed And a crucified Christ hung bereft silver dappled draped a shining moon how-clear I still remember the sorrow of that little attic room, within me it's darkness like a shining barrow gloom, waiting to be lifted, freed esprit. Exotic flowers unfurl Let only one be your centrepiece and the others, let them brocade your world swim in your dreams like sirens to remind you, that a wayward sailor often drowns the torso on fire doused I have picked one jewel one gem, I was meant to receive and it was purely instinctual not anything to misconceive I plucked her wings, there and then held her steadfast against my skin after tonight the world shall never be the same again. Crystals of light Purge the light find to your delight that darkness isn't such, a fright? See the crocus purple enveloped even white striped does she change your focus? Look there are stars in the dead of night look there in a cave there are crystals of light. Smooth as onyx stone I want to touch with my mind surmise that even if I go bind I can still steer my way home. The bells echo When time is stilled and stoppered in your heart an echo heard that might not mean that much shall a song to remember be impart it'll ring in your heart of silence a touch so tremulous you will shake from within believing something unforeseen, has taken shape and form within your skin, and a host of angels shall intervene they will sing in chorus some unknown hymn likes of which you'll never hear again what they've written has no pseudonym no nameless-place to hide or condemn. A bell once struck rings pure its purpose true it carries the essence we'll imbue. When it shines When the sun shines- it shines through you I am molten-rock, rock in love what more can I do? I am, moved, and I am quenched in your sea I am a frozen lamb, what more would you have me be? Let us feel a tendril vine as it grows, as it trembles as it climbs, as it flowers as its seeds, get dispersed let us sense and remember our petals gave rise to sunsets gave rise to births and deaths and when it shines it does so for you. We're-as-a candle's flame Your soul is a key jammed in a lock you cannot force forwards or back right or left; all you can do now is wait. Wait long enough you'll come to see, understand there isn't a door or lock. The ocean of life retains not the vessel. That floats and drifts, endless upon it. That's a vapour you cannot-contain, the sun is an all-consuming fire it-exists In humble beginnings as also an end. It lives without life, therefore, coexists yet because it only requires waxed-wicks to burn. We're a candle's flame; we're not the candle we burn to our extinguished ends to be ignited by this life - once again. Bolshoi dancers I believe the world is changing its core beliefs it's moving from iron changing into a zinc alloy. It's now, moving from zinc alloys to a mercury core and what's more, the temperature is rising, the-temperature is rapidly-rising for sure and what's more, potentially there is no guarantor. No promise the Bolshoi dancers shall dance anymore no, promise that the world will be here at all to ballet-dance on its axis to figure skate like a dying black swan once, we're all dead and gone. Once, were drowned in the bottom of this mercury pond. A moment of truth Every day is a kind of ‘what if' kind of day. But 'what if' today was a different kind of 'what if' kind of day ‘what if' this day, happened to be you're final ‘what if? ' Kind of day, would you do anything differently. Forget those commitments and there long dead ideology, what would you do - differently? Be selfish - come now be serious would you leave the sick and lame? Would you toast that dying minute? For a seconds worth of selfish, fame. Or would you earnestly, just carry on all the same. Stick or bust I married my heart to you. I pinned it to the wall you can crush it like a flower. Cause the way I'm feeling it now doesn't, really matter it was freely, given and yours equally you didn't have-to-barter I gave you, it willingly at cost hoping you would make -the most of it, and you did. Now it's stick-or-bust or do you twist, and have I lost? The journal-of-the dead The Journal-of-the dead, what would it read today we eat dust and, walked on Duckweed tonight we all partied and waltzed through walls disturbing the living; with white overalls. Tomorrow truly who knows what that'll bring? Floorboards' squeaking a baby is mewling; the graveyard was-crowded so I went for a walk and, then flew alongside a sparrow-hawk. It soared up over an ancient coppice chopped once a decade to warm a goddess, her flesh without fire, cold as a river. That flows down the mountain through a fissure. The Journal-of-the dead, what would it read today Jesus blessed me with good old mead I joined the flock pursued by a collie ambling like a lamb lost in the valley. Closing this book, I now too must here go, say amen and rest, like fresh winter snow putting down, pen. My own Journal is-done the last page is-written, goodbye everyone. Obituary of a dead poet One day, he'll have a name-tag around his big-toe like he belong-someplace and didn't have far to go, the slate will be wiped clean all will be, reimburse his Caucasian-toe, free of lesions blisters that burst. All that will-be-left shall be pages and pages of verse a body - that can't afford a burial or the price-of-a-hearse. And few-other-than a priest will mourn or even attend; as he can count his friends, on one-hand, let's not pretend. The obituaries - let the record show that custom tears did somehow flow, and angels banked both sides his coffin, row on row, and God was in attendance as his guide when he died. That God removed the name-tag that God, in His heavenly ascendance was by his side God was in attendance and somehow even-he-cried. The day they tagged his big-toe like he belong-someplace and didn't have far to go.